Love Is a Drug

I would like for love to just be love.

It’s not. 

Love is a barter system.  Trading – this for that.

Love is sexual politics.  Trafficking in position, and lust, and power-balance.

Love is ego-reduction.  I need to be the most important thing in my life, but my ego has to deflate (periodically) to let other people in.

Love is money management.  When you’re dating, the spread is fairly equal, but when you’re married, the financial concrete boots seem to be attached to one person or the other – not both.

Love is a drug.  I crave it, I want it, I day-dream in it, I want to bury my face in it.  Every day.

Love is paying twice as much for three times less, because the quality of love overpowers the reality of economics and (sometimes) logic. 

Love is mental foreplay. 

Love is critical mass.  Thinking that you can’t take any more of what you have, but wanting more of it anyway.

Love is suffering. 

Love is elation.  Walking, with shoes, but feeling nothing but air beneath the soles of your feet and the ground.

Love is situational.  (Crosby, Stills, and Nash: “If you can’t be with the one that you love; love the one you’re with.”)

Love is occasional.  If the person you love isn’t in proximity regularly, the love comes in tidal waves.

Love is consolation.  Coming home and having someone who is there in body, soul, and mind to validate all the things I do in order to stay alive every day.

Love is a puppy.  It loves unconditionally and with beautiful abandon.  (And it occasionally gets so excited that it can’t control itself.)

Love is.  (After all, it’s both a noun and a verb.)

I have to believe in love, otherwise, what is there to believe in?  Work?  Netflix?  

Love is the drug.  And when two people are doing the same drug, on the same plane of a love-high, love is the most scintillating drug of all.